“Not particularly hungry.” He lifted his glass, twirling it between thumb and forefinger, his gaze never leaving her. “I want to fill my eyes with you, Janey. May be a long time before I see you again.”
Her eyes warmed to the tense adulation in his. After all, he did look beastly ill, and the least she could do would be to give him the memory of a little kindness to carry away.
“And I want you to know, Bob, that I’ll be thinking of you, hoping and praying that before long you’ll be [80] ]quite fit again.” She leaned over, touching his hand lightly with hers. Instantly his closed over it—feverishly, as a man clings to hope when his ship of life has been broken into wreckage.
“Will you, Janey?”
“Of course.”
“That will help—some.” He put down the glass and caught her other hand, drawing her nearer. “I’d like to feel there’s still a corner for me. No other fellow taking my place, I mean.”
“How absurd! You know I haven’t time even to think of men.”
“They have plenty of time to think of you.” Again that quizzical smile. “I’ve got that much over them, haven’t I? You’re my wife.”
She smiled back and tried to draw away but he held her with the grip of hot iron.
“That’s what I’ve got over them, Janey—all of them. You may belong to your public now but you’ve been mine. We’ve had our youth together, haven’t we?”